Peripheral Vision
by lindafishes8
Summary: A cold and misty night spent in the forest brings a small surprise. Written for Uncle Charlie for the 2015 Halloween Challenge


The crisp autumn wind blew gently as mist rolled over the tops of his shoes, making it difficult to judge where to step.

"It's as thick as pea soup tonight, tovarisch," Napoleon observed as he neared the campfire and dropped his armful of gathered wood onto the pine needle and moss carpeted forest floor.

"Not soup, stew. It's the last of our food until we hike out of here tomorrow, so eat it slowly." Illya was busy stirring the contents of two opened cans set in close proximity to the red-hot coals. He paused to blink away tears from the blue smoke.

"I was referring to the fog. Rolled in fairly quickly, wouldn't you say?" Solo inhaled the savory smell of dinner being heated. His stomach rumbled.

"Gonna be a cold one, too," he added, glad they were both wearing their long-sleeved, olive-drab, insulated shirts and trousers.

Daylight was waning; the firelight cast eerie shadows. A tiny voice called out from behind them.

"Please?"

Startled, each grabbed his gun and pointed it in the direction of the intruder. In a clearing ten yards away, stood a small figure, barely visible by the light of the fire.

A high-pitched voice, a child's voice, repeated the plea.

"Please? I… I am hungry."

Giving each other a sideways glance, Solo and Kuryakin cautiously approached and noted a mere wisp of a boy, barely over three feet tall, standing alone, and clasping a large heavy cup in his hands. A grain crop of some kind stood in the large field behind him. As they neared, a tall, impassable barbed wire fence loomed into view, separating them from the child.

"I don't think he's armed," Solo hissed between his teeth and holstered his weapon.

"Ukrainian?" Illya questioned with raised eyebrows as he followed suit.

"Huh?"

"Let me do the talking."

Pale and ghost-like in the shadowy lighting, the young, frail-looking lad retreated a few steps; wary eyes darted back and forth between them as if he were about to turn and flee at any moment.

He wore a short-sleeved, threadbare shirt which was at least two sizes too big; it hung well below his knees. It may have been white at one time but was now mostly a dingy gray. Flaxen hair in need of good combing practically glowed as a passing cloud uncovered the Harvest Moon. Shoeless and shivering in the cool night air, he held out his cup.

"Hey there little one," Kuryakin said gently. "What are you doing out here all alone?"

The ragamuffin stared and shook his head timidly.

Both sensed that the boy was frightened and took a step back from the fence. "If you set your cup down here," Illya indicated a spot under the wire, "my friend will fill it with some nice stew. Would you like that?

To set the child's mind at ease, they backed up another step. After a moment of trepidation the child obeyed, but retreated again, well out of arm's reach.

Solo slowly approached the fence and picked it up. He paused to whisper in Illya's ear. "While I take care of the food, you try to get some information out of the kid. Did you happen to pack any wire cutters?"

Kuryakin shook his head.

As Napoleon headed back to the fire, Illya sat down on the ground to appear less threatening. He studied the boy and recognized the look of hunger. Was there terror in those big eyes as well? Something about all of this seemed vaguely familiar...

"Where do you live? Close-by?"

The child stared back, wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, but did not answer.

"Are you cold?"

A reluctant nod.

"Well, you must be freezing," Illya said and began to unbutton his shirt. "Let me give you this at least, to help keep you warm."

He rose and the boy skittered away again.

"It's all right, I am not going to hurt you. I just want to help."

Being careful of the barbs, he passed his now wadded shirt through a small opening in the fence where it fell to the ground. Only after he'd backed away again was it snatched by grubby hands and tied around thin shoulders.

"Do you have a name?"

Illya was rewarded with silence once again.

Napoleon returned with the container filled with the contents of both cans of warmed stew, and placed it along with a canteen of water on the same spot on the ground, under the fence. He moved off to stand beside his partner. Timid hands picked both items up and fled, disappearing into the mist.

"You are welcome, little one," said Illya, his voice wavering.

For the better part of an hour they searched, in vain, for an opening. None was found. There was little chance of finding the youngster anyway, as he could be anywhere by now. Perhaps they could pick up his trail in the morning...

"What's a high, barbed wire fence doing around a farmer's crop anyway? I swear Illya, that fence was not here when we set up camp."

Illya rubbed his bare arms and answered. "How do you explain it then? It didn't just appear out of nowhere. We're in the middle of a forest for goodness sake. Do you not find it unusual that he spoke Ukrainian?"

Napoleon's jaw dropped and he stared at Illya as if he were demented.

"All I heard was English. Are you in need of a hearing check?"

"He said 'ласка,' the Ukrainian word for 'please,' and you heard me speak in my native tongue. Perhaps you are the one in need, not I."

They agreed to disagree over that point and as the evening wound down, they assuaged their hunger by sharing a bag of trail mix Illya scrounged from the bottom of his backpack and hot tea (spiked with a heavy measure of the senior agent's flask of rum) to take away the chill. It had been a very long day.

As each man was nestled into his down-filled sleeping bag a little while later; both were in deep contemplation about the boy. Solo wondered where he'd come from and why he was alone and out in that field after dark. Kuryakin pondered deeper questions, mostly about his own sanity.

The crackling fire that separated them made the only sound.

"Are you awake, my friend?" Illya's voice was barely audible.

"Mmm hmm," said friend replied.

"Up for an eerie bedtime story?"

Napoleon rolled to face his partner and propped himself up on one elbow.

"Sure."

Illya remained on his back, eyes opened but unfocused as he began. "Well...perhaps not eerie, unless you compare it to what happened a short while ago. Allow me to gently remind you, Napoleon, though I speak Russian and allow others to call me Russian, I was born in the Ukraine."

There was a long pause as he collected his thoughts.

"My mother and I were homeless and on the run after the Germans invaded Kiev."

Solo's ears pricked up but he remained silent. He was aware that Illya's family home had been destroyed during "The Siege of Kiev" in 1941. Any shared memories from the taciturn agent's childhood were considered privileged information and offered only on rare occasions.

"We'd traveled for days on foot, avoiding the SS, making our way to the home of my father's brother. Mama said we needed to be extremely careful, to never speak to anyone we did not know and for me to remain by her side at all times.

One night, we were hiding in a field of ripened wheat. We pulled the stalks down to conceal ourselves as the invading army marched past. We fell asleep there."

"I awoke in the darkness to the aroma of meat and vegetables cooking. We had not eaten for a week and I was never hungrier in my short life as I was at that moment. The soldiers were long passed. I disobeyed my mother. As she slept, I ran to the edge of the field to beg for food."

He paused and watched the campfire smoke as it swirled in finger-like wisps reaching skyward.

"Two men were there, dressed in strange green uniforms-not German, but not like my father's uniform either. One filled my cup with their dinner while the other gave me the shirt off his back as I was shivering from cold and fright." He took a long breath, remembering.

"That food saved our lives, Napoleon. We'd lost the strength to carry on. Many days later we arrived at our goal. My uncle took us in and we were safe...for a short time at least."

Humbled that his reticent friend would share this painful part of his childhood, yet alarmed by the similarities between Illya's story and the events of the evening, Napoleon asked only one question. "How old were you?"

"Seven," Illya turned to face his partner, "but I was small for my age."

Silence filled the space between them.

"I wished I had thanked them," Illya whispered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I said 'Good night,' Napoleon."

The next morning they discovered the fence was gone. Only woods stretched out in all directions.

"What's the date today, tovarisch?"

"It's the first day of November."

They left the woods, vowing never to return or speak of this again.


End file.
